Predator: Death in the Wild
by Fate8
Summary: Mysterious and brutal killings upset a small community. Forces begin to gather as the official investigation stalls. A hunter begins to stalk new prey. Reviews always appreciated!
1. Chapter 1

Henry Cutsmith was bored. He was the county coroner, but the morgue was empty except for himself. There had not been a death that required his services for over a week, not since that traffic fatality out on Highway 10. That was good in a way, he supposed, but it made for some some long dull days at the office. He sat at his desk reading a book and contemplating where to go for lunch when the phone rang. Henry called it the harbinger of doom because most of the time that sound was the immediate prelude to finding out someone had died.

"Coroner's office," he said into the receiver.

"Henry? This is Sheriff Brown. I'm up in the Kofa refuge, and we have really stepped in some shit here. I'm sending Deputy Collins down to escort you to the scene. Bring all of your equipment."

Cutsmith had known Travis Brown for twenty years, and he had never heard his voice quaver like it did today. "What's going on, Travis? What happened?"

"The park ranger called us in. It looks like some poachers ran into something that could shoot back, but I have never seen anything like this in my life. It is a bloody fucking mess, and I can't sort out what really happened as yet. Need you up here yesterday."

"Alright. How many bodies?"

"At least four, but I'm not sure."

"I'll be there as soon as I can." Cutsmith hung up the phone. This was weird, he thought. The Kofa Wildlife Refuge covered over 650,000 acres of southwestern Arizona, but it wasn't any kind of hunting mecca. Big game animals were not abundant in the park, and with the onset of summer around the corner, the climate and terrain could be downright inhospitable. Sometimes an inexperienced hiker or camper would wander off or get lost and die, but that was about the extent of human deaths in Kofa. He wondered what a party of poachers would have been after up there, and who would have slaughtered them for it.

Deputy Frank Collins arrived to pick him up within the hour. Cutsmith could tell the young lawman was shaken by whatever had taken place out on the Kofa. The normally affable deputy was

nearly silent and seemed to have grown three shades paler since the last time the coroner had seen him. Cutsmith kept to himself until the two were out on the road, and curiosity finally got the better of him. "What am I going to see out there, Frank?"

Collins turned to look at the coroner, and his eyes looked haunted. "It's bad, Doc. I've never even heard of anything like this outside of a horror movie. The sheriff told me not to tell you too much because he wants a fresh impression, but be prepared for the worst." Cutsmith didn't really know what to make of this, and Collins was not forthcoming with any additional information. The coroner finally decided to just wait and see what awaited him at the wildlife refuge.

Sheriff Brown met the patrol car as it pulled up to the killing scene. The site was surrounded by vehicles with flashing lights. Crime scene tape cordoned off a large area blocked by serious looking men in uniform with guns. The sheriff looked grim. "Henry," he said by way of introduction. "Let's go." The coroner got out and followed the sheriff up a small hill. At the crown, the seasoned medical examiner saw a nightmare which would stay with him until the end of his days. The smell was bad. Meat went bad fast out here, and the stench of death was nearly overwhelming. The first visual he noticed was the copious amounts of blood which had soaked into the ground. It had dried into a blackish stain upon the sand and rocks. There was easily enough to have come from four grown men. The next thing to draw his eye was a man hanging upside down from a slab of rock which rose about eight feet above the ground. He had been skinned. A pile of clothes and guts, both covered in flies, rested below the man.

"There is another one just like him on the other side of the rock," said the sheriff. "They were tied up there with tent cord with a tent spike driven into the rock to hold them."

"Where are the other bodies?"

"Over here," said the sheriff, leading Cutsmith downslope for a few yards. Another body lay in the dust. This one had also been butchered, but in a different manner. The man still had his clothes and most of his skin, but his head was missing. Something else wasn't right. Cutsmith bent down close to the body to have a better look.

"His spine is missing," said the coroner. He looked back up at the sheriff. "What the hell?"

"Yeah," said Brown. "The other guy is pretty much the same. We haven't touched anything."

"Who could have done this?"

"Don't know. What we do know is that the poachers, and it looks like they were after some bighorn sheep, fired off a lot of rounds, but at what we don't know. There aren't any signs of another party, just the aftermath of the murders. One thing more, we think there was another man with the poachers. We found some tracks leading away from the site. From the looks of them, he was in a hurry."

"The killer?"

"Maybe, but we found their campsite not too far from here. Two two-man tents and a single one man tent. It looks like there was a fifth member of this group, and from what I found inside the tent, I think it was a local. I think these poor bastards hired out a guide."

"Any ideas who?"

"Nope, but it won't be too hard to find out. There aren't too many that could have made a passable hunting guide in this place."

Cutsmith went to look at the final body, and found it with both head and spine gone. "Are you through with the bodies, Sheriff? I'd like to get them back and start the autopsies."

"Yeah, I'll detail a couple of deputies to help you bag them."

A short time later, Cutsmith was back at the morgue. The four bodies were laid out on separate examination tables. The room was kept cold, but the coroner felt a chill crawl up his spine. The autopsies had shown him how the men had died, but he still had no idea of what or who had done the deed. Cutsmith had given up smoking five years ago, but he really wanted a cigarette right now. Nothing he saw was making any sense. He was sitting deep in thought when sheriff Brown entered the morgue.

"Henry," said the lawman. "What have you found for me?"

"Nothing good, Travis." He got up and walked over to the first body. "Take a look at this." Cutsmith whipped off the cover, exposing one of the skinned victims. "This guy was killed by something I have never seen before. See this wound in his chest? It is completely cauterized. Whatever the weapon was, it cooked the flesh around the entry point, and burned completely through the body. Took out the heart. Guy was dead before he hit the ground."

"What could have done that?"

"Beats the hell out of me. A laser of some sort?"

"That's crazy, Henry. Fucking lasers."

The medical examiner shrugged, then walked over to the next body. "This one was skinned too, but he died differently. Look at this." He pointed to a very thin wound in the forehead, about an inch and a half long. There was a very similar exit wound in the back of the head. "Instant death, again."

"No bullet made that wound,"said the sheriff.

"Nope, no powder burns, no shrapnel, nothing. Almost like a dart, but that is impossible. Whatever it was made the cleanest cut I've ever seem. A surgeon's scalpel couldn't have made a cut that clean. Which ties into the next two." He pulled the tarp off the next victim. "Another hole in the chest, but this was caused by penetrating trauma. Something very sharp punched through the chest cavity and skewered the heart."

"A knife?"

"The wound is too big for a knife or arrow. A spear would be my guess, but that is the least surprising thing about our pal here." The coroner rolled the body over. "His spine was ripped out, but to do that, a killer would have to saw through a lot of bone and body tissue to free the spine from the body. Only that didn't happen. This is one cut down the body. Whatever the killer used, it went through ribs, muscle and tissue like a hot knife through butter. Again, a surgeon's scalpel could not be that precise."

"And the last victim?"

"He may have been killed with a knife of some sort. There were two incisions on either side of the heart where a blade penetrated the chest cavity. It cut the arteries around the heart. It wouldn't have been an instant death, and it would have hurt a lot. Same as the other cuts, this one was abnormally clean."

"So, I'm looking for a high-tech psycho spree killer?"

"I don't know what you are looking for, Travis. I am saying I have never seen anything remotely like this before. I can tell you how these men died, but that is about it." Both men were silent for a moment. "Did you have any luck finding the guide?"

"Yeah, or at least I know who he is. I asked around and found out that Ernie Illanipi hired out as a guide to a group of hunters looking to go out onto the Kofa."

"Any sign of him?"

"Not yet. Ernie knows that land better than any white man. If he is out there, finding him will be next to impossible. But, he has to come back in sometime. His family is here, and he won't abandon them. Sooner or later, he'll show."

"Any idea on the identities of the victims?"

"No problem there," said the sheriff. "Whoever killed them didn't bother with removing their identification, or robbing them for that matter. None of them were locals, which is something to be thankful for. We are in the process of notifying the next of kin now. Let me know if you find anything else."

"Sure thing, Travis," said the medical examiner as the sheriff left the morgue.

Two days passed without a break in the case and no word on the whereabouts of Ernie Illanipi. Sheriff Brown was dead tired from lack of sleep and the effort of trying to wrap his brain around the murders. His dazed reverie was broken by the sound of the intercom on his desk. "What is it, Sherrie?"

"A man to see you, Sheriff. Says he knew one of the Kofa victims."

Brown sighed heavily. "Go ahead and send him in, Sherrie." Maybe this guy could shed some light on what the victims were doing, and who might have wanted them dead.

A man entered the sheriff's office. He was big and he wore a suit. The sheriff estimated that it cost more than his salary for a month. They guy carried an air of command, like he was used to being obeyed, Brown could see that by the way the man walked into his office like he owned it. The sheriff stood, thinking, _This should be fun_. He extended his hand and said, "I'm Sheriff Travis Brown." The man took the hand and gave it a squeeze. _Quite a grip_, thought the sheriff.

"Malcolm West. Nice to meet you, sheriff."

"Have a seat, Mr. West. What can I do for you?"

"One of the men murdered out on your wildlife refuge was my friend, Rick Wells."

"I am sorry for your loss, Mr. West."

"So am I. What can you tell me about Rick's death?"

"I'm afraid I can't comment on an ongoing investigation."

West frowned and looked off to the side for a moment before refocusing on the sheriff. "I flew down here as soon as I got the news that Rick was dead. I asked around a bit, and heard some weird shit. The murders aren't exactly a well kept secret. Heads missing, men skinned like animals, a missing guide. I want to know what happened out there, and what you are doing about it."

The tension in the room was beginning to rise. "Do you know what Wells and the others were doing out there?" asked the sheriff. "Because it sure looked like they were poaching."

"I don't care what Rick was doing, legal or not. He's dead, and I want to get my hands on the murdering bastards that killed him."

"I cannot allow you to interfere in my investigation, Mr. West. I understand your feelings, but I must caution you against doing anything rash." West just stared at him.

"Rick Wells was my good friend," he said at last. "Once upon a time, he saved my life. Do you understand what a debt of honor is, sheriff? I will avenge his death."

"Mr. West, I'm warning you--."

"Noted." West stood again. "I'll find what I need, and then I will hunt down those responsible. Actions have consequences, sheriff, and these will be most dire." He left the office, shutting the door with a bang.

_Great,_ thought Brown. _Another thing I have to worry about. This day just gets better and better._


	2. The Set Up

Malcolm West was on his cell phone as soon as he hit the street in front of the sheriff's office. "It's me," he said when the party on the other end picked up the call. "We're going hunting. Bring the heavy rigs and all of the extras you and the boys might need. I'll meet you at the airport. Right now, I've got to go hire a guide and acquire some suitable transportation."

West listened for a moment. "I dunno. We'll stay until we find the psycho that killed Rick." Another pause while West let the other man speak. "Bring enough for an extended stay. There is a lot of land to cover out here, and it could be awhile. Right, call me when you are about to land." West hung up the phone and took a deep breath. The first thing he had to do was find a local who was willing to show him around, and not be too particular about breaking a few laws if necessary. Fortunately, in his experience, all it took to find such a person was a little cash. Malcolm West had plenty of that to spare.

Sheriff Travis Brown had a gnawing feeling in his gut. He'd had one already, but West had made it worse. On a hunch, he picked up the phone and dialed the airport. "Deke? This is Sheriff Brown. Have you had any private planes fly in the last couple of days?" Deke Smith was the senior air traffic controller at the small airport which serviced the community. If West had flown in from somewhere, Deke would know something. "Just the one? Would that plane be registered to a Mr. Malcolm West?" A pause as his hunch was confirmed. "Where did that plane come from, Deke?" He listened as the flight information was relayed to him. "Thanks, Deke. I owe you one. Let me know if that plane leaves." Brown hung up the phone and rubbed his temples. The plane had flown in from Denver. He picked up the phone again to make a few calls to Colorado.

While the sheriff was making a few long distance calls, Malcolm West was doing some advance prep work for his next planned excursion. One advantage of having a wildlife refuge nearby was the availability of rugged vehicles which could be rented by visitors to take inside the park. West paid for two 4x4 Jeeps, which looked slightly beat up, but did come equipped with some nice extras like overhead lights, oversize tires and a towing winch. There was ample cargo space for the equipment his group would need for the specialized outing. While he was procuring the vehicles, West asked the man running the rental agency if he knew of anyone who would be interested in guiding a hunting party into the refuge. West was not surprised to learn that the agency had a list of potential guides on hand, for just such a situation. The list was available for a small fee. West gladly paid for it, and immediately set about tracking down his guide.

As he was going about that business, Sheriff Brown was receiving word over fax and phone that made him uneasy. Colorado law enforcement had a file on Malcolm West, and the more he found out, the worse he felt. West was wealthy, there was no doubt. He owned at least three different businesses, one of which was an outdoor adventure company. He had been investigated for illegal gambling activities and ties to organized crime, none of which had panned out. West had also been cited several times in the state for hunting violations. Brown whistled when the the list of registered firearms belonging to West came over the fax, and he wondered what type of weaponry was not registered. After some time, the sheriff managed to get a state investigator who knew West on the line.

"You say he's just shown up in Arizona?" asked the Colorado man. "Malcolm West does not just show up anywhere. He always has a reason for anything he does." Brown told him about the death of Rick Wells, but left out the gruesome details, then about West's brief visit to his office. "Hmm. You had better watch him, sheriff. Wherever West goes, trouble is never far behind, but he is a sly dog. We have never been able to pin anything major on him, but that man is not, by any stretch, a John Q. Citizen. It sounds like he is out for blood. West is like a bulldog. Once he gets his teeth into something, he won't let go." Sheriff Brown thanked the man and hung up. He was still waiting on information from the feds. West was going to be trouble, he just knew it.

The man in question was beginning to grow frustrated. The list of guides he had bought was not extensive, and many of them had a good relationship with the park and with local authorities. They had no wish to jeopardize their business by doing something which would land them in trouble. West was fairly upfront about that, while being vague about the details. He did not want a guide who would freak out in the middle of the desert if someone ended up dead.

Finally, he stumbled upon a lead. An old man declined the job offer, but told West his nephew might be interested, and gave him directions to the man's house. West pulled up to a ramshackle home. The place had seen better days. It sagged on one side, the roof had been roughly patched, and the windows had been covered with aluminum foil. A thick layer of dust had settled over the entire sad affair. West exited his vehicle and approached the house. He was about to step up on the bare low wooden porch when a voice from the shadows stopped him cold.

"If you've got business here, you'd best be stating it." The twin barrels of a shotgun protruding into the sunlight and leveled at his midsection made West consider his next words very carefully.

"I am looking for Craig Coytero," said West. Silence was the only response from the house. He held his hands out and away from his body to show he carried nothing that would make someone holding a shotgun on him nervous. "I have come with a job opportunity for you."

"Yeah? What kind of job is it?"

"As a hunting guide in the wildlife refuge," said West. He was relieved when the shotgun barrels lowered a bit, although they remained pointed in his general direction.

"Come in, and we'll talk terms," said Coytero.

An hour or so later, West left and he knew he had his guide. As it turned out, Coytero had known the missing guide from the murdered hunting party. They had grown up together. Coytero expressed an eagerness to find out the fate of his childhood friend, and was not adverse to exacting a little revenge if the worst had happened. "If Ernie is dead, I want a piece of the motherfuckers that did it," were his exact words. West knew then that he had his man. He promised Coytero more than ample compensation for the job. The newly hired guide's grip was strong as the two men shook hands to seal the deal. The Apache was lanky and thin, like he had been whipped lean by the desert. Black hair fell over his forehead and settled around his shoulders. West estimated his age to be mid to late twenties, but it was hard to tell with his sun-burnished face and stoic black eyes.

His immediate business concluded, West loitered about town. He hated waiting, but that is what he was stuck with doing until his other plane carrying his men and supplies touched down, at the local airport. At last, his cell phone rang , and it was the call he had been waiting for. After conformation of the landing, West placed another call to Coytero, and told him to meet up at the airport. West could feel anticipation begin to crawl up through his guts. Soon, he would be on the hunt, and the sorry bastards who killed Rick were going to pay in blood.

West was not the only one burning up the phone lines. Deke Smith watched the plane land, and kept a close vigil as three men disembarked. The trio began to unload boxes of cargo including several long silver cases used for transporting expensive hunting rifles. Smith immediately reported this new activity to Sheriff Brown.

"Are you sure, Deke?"

"It's registered to the same guy, and came out of the same area. I'd say it's a good bet, Sheriff."

"Okay, Deke. Thanks for the heads-up." Sheriff Brown hung up the phone and gently massaged his temples. He could figure out what West was planning to do, but as of yet, the man had not broken any laws. Brown could not arrest him, or order the man to stop whatever damn fool vigilante plan West was about to put into motion. Still, it wouldn't hurt to go out to the airport and lay eyes on the newcomers. He picked his hat up off his desk and made for the door.

West rumbled up to the plane in one of his rented 4x4's. The sight of the three men waiting around the unloaded equipment brought a surge of confidence through him. All of them were rugged outdoor enthusiasts that had accompanied him on many hunting trips throughout the world. Further, their loyalty was unquestioned. Not everything they had done could be considered strictly legal, even in the wilder corners of the globe, and West kept very good records.

Billy Parker was the sharpshooter of the bunch. Born and raised by a gun-loving survivalist clan in Wyoming, West had seen him pick off a wolf pack from a helicopter as the creatures tried to escape by weaving through a forest in Canada. The man was uncanny with a rifle in his hands.

West had met Orlando Robinson hunting gators on the Louisiana swamps. The dark skinned Cajun preferred to get close to his prey. He was the kind to hunt wild boars with spears, like in the old days he had said, and go after bears with nothing but a powerful handgun. West thought swamp fever had probably fried his brains at some point, but he had to admit the man was fearless.

The final member of the entourage was Ray Callahan. He was the sort which looked exceptionally bored at the world unless a high degree of danger was involved. West, never the most temperate of men, thought Callahan was missing something inside of him. He had never seen him smile unless blood had been spilled.

"Hi, boys," said West as he got out of the truck. "Nice to see you." The three nodded at him.

"What's going on, boss?" asked Parker. "Can you fill us in on the details?"

"I'll tell you what I know," said West. "Start loading the jeep." He talked while the other three worked. When both tasks were done, silence hung among the quartet.

"Rick was no lightweight," said Callahan. "It would have taken someone with a lot of skill to sneak up on him and butcher an entire party."

"Yeah," said West. "But that skill won't save them." A vehicle entered the hangar area, and West turned to watch it. "Ah, there is our guide. Load the rest of the equipment on the second jeep, and we can get out of here." Coytero pulled up, and after a brief introduction to the others, helped to load the second truck. They were almost done when a patrol car tuned down the dirt lane leading to the hangers, and slowly made its way toward the group.

"Johnny Law come to pay us a visit. Stay loose, boys," said West. The men dropped what they were doing and stared at the car as Sheriff Brown came to a stop and got out of his car.

"Craig," he said, nodding at Coytero. The guide returned the gesture. "Mr. West, you and these other gentlemen wouldn't be thinking of doing something stupid and illegal, would you?"

"No sir," said West. "My associates and I are just going to do a little camping and sight-seeing in the park. It is a beautiful place, and I would like to see more of it."

"Cut the crap, West" said Sheriff Brown, a little edge creeping into his voice. "I can't stop you from stomping around the refuge, just like I am sure you are smart enough to have all of the correct papers and licenses for that fancy equipment stacked in those jeeps. Buck me on this investigation, and I will arrest the whole sorry lot of you. You want to wander around in the wasteland, that's great. If I even hear a whisper of a rumor that you and the wild bunch here are causing the smallest bit of trouble, I will hammer you into the dirt. Am I clear?"

"Crystal," deadpanned West.

Brown turned back to his car. "Keep your nose clean, Craig," he said. The sheriff started the engine and slowly drove away.

When he was out of sight, West faced his crew. "That was fun," he said. "Load up."

Coytero led the group to a small butte relatively close to the crime scene. They could eyeball it with scopes and binoculars, without getting close enough to trip anyone's suspicion. They set up camp while Coytero scouted around a bit.

"Well?" inquired West when the Apache returned.

"My friend was not killed at the murder site," said Coytero. "This we know. If he was there at the time of the attack, and escaped on foot, I think I know where he would have gone. There is a cave a few miles from here. It is hidden inside of a rock formation. We used to play there as kids all of the time. It's hidden from the outside. Only someone who lived in this area would know about it, maybe."

"If so, why hasn't your friend shown up since the murders?" asked West.

"It could be that he is laying low for awhile," said Coytero. "Most Apache are wary of the white man's justice. Or it could be that he is lying dead somewhere out there in the desert."

"Huh," grunted West. "We'll go check out this cave tomorrow at first light."

"It doesn't make much sense," said Parker as he walked up to the duo. "I have spied over every inch of that kill site. I don't see how one guy, much less a group, could have approached the camp without being seen or heard. Too much open space."

"What about at night?" asked West.

"That would be the only way," agreed Parker. "Otherwise, a blind man could see an armed party coming in that direction from miles away. However, that line of thinking would lead me to believe that those attackers would be packing some sophisticated equipment. Night vision and such."

"Swell," said West. "We'll have to set up a night watch for tonight."

Later in the night, Orlando Robinson was on watch duty. He would periodically scan the area with night vision goggles, while passing the time by tossing a knife at passing scorpions. He had seen nothing out of the ordinary, but kept his senses sharp, nonetheless. No band of killers was going to sneak up while he was on the clock.

The Yautja studied the human in the camp, sizing up the prey. It was of acceptable size and age, and it appeared to be familiar with human weaponry. The alien hunter had already identified several types of weapons scattered around the human campsite. It trilled softly down in it's throat. When the sun rose next, and the humans began their daily activities, the hunt would begin.


End file.
